Nobody knows the percentage
of the world population
heading for London where 
the streets are paved with gold.

Those who have arrived
have condemned their own homes.
Along darkened alleyways now
they stoop and scrape for their gold.

Any avatar stood on Waterloo bridge
might admire the art of the sunset.
Old Man Thames will turn to blood
after passing through urban gold.

Those played with; who know not the truth;
up to their necks in faraway mud;
pray for their brave-faced children,
that they may gaze upon the gold.

Charles Dickens leans by George Orwell
in a dream tavern and moonlight,
breathing of shameful inequity 
and exactly what value each cobblestone of gold.